Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1) (23 page)

8:52 AM

32

Janice was worried about
Jake.

Her intention of going to Lisette’s house last evening was to have dinner. That was it! Then go home. No hanky panky. No fooling around. End of story. The last thing on her mind was staying over.

Or was it?

I’m a damn liar!

Jake would be absolutely crazy by now. Angry and upset. Probably pissed off and pooped all over the place. And, she wouldn’t blame him. She hadn’t even put papers down. Old, used
Post and Courier’s
worked well. Especially the editions without her byline. Sometimes the
State
sufficed, for good measure. Extra protection. Better absorbency.

How could she have known? She wasn’t a fortuneteller. Besides, what warning signals were there? Did she have the slightest suspicion that she would be seduced into being with Lisette? On Lisette? Underneath Lisette? Dear, sweet Lisette. Now, she knew. It was a fact. Janice Porter was definitely
in love
. In love. Really and truly. Seriously. With Lisette.

Jake. Back to Jake. She loved Jake, too.

She took King Street, the downtown exit ramp off I-26. Her speed dwindled as she turned onto Rutledge Avenue. Morning traffic clogged the highway like metal cholesterol. Not to mention all the construction. Charleston was bursting at the seams. The only place to go – to grow -- was up. She checked her watch. Almost nine. She wanted to catch up with Dr. Garrison during her morning rounds. Never one to let Louis down, she turned right on Bee Street. MUSC loomed in front of her like a huge concrete tomb.

Hopefully, Jake could wait another minute… or two.

Janice was working, as usual, on a deadline.

33

Motherfucker!

Let me out of here.

It was boiling hot in here and she couldn’t see. Something tight was wrapped around her wrists and ankles. Her arms were secured behind her. Her shoulders ached. There was a sweet, awful medicinal taste in her mouth. Like the time she tried coke with Lisa, one of her druggie friends. What was her boyfriend’s name? Lester. Lester scored them some coke one night and so they snorted a few lines. On a dare. Big deal. Boring. Lester told them to rub the rest, what was left of the powder onto their fingers and massage it into their gums. What? Go fuck yourself, Lester!

Where am I?

Let me out of here, you motherfucker! Now!

She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t even talk.

Little puffs of breath from her nose. In and out. That was all she could do. She worked her tongue across the inside of her lips. They wouldn’t open. There was tape, something strong and durable clamped down hard across her mouth. Like adhesive or duct tape. It wrapped all the way around her head. Several times. It pulled at her hair each time she moved.

Ouch!

Who did this to me? What happened?

She tried collecting her thoughts. She felt hazy, dizzy, drugged.

She kicked out, but her feet caught against something hard. Metal perhaps. She moved her head backward and forward, but the tape pulled at her hair.

She was laying on something coarse, like carpet. Indoor outdoor. Like on their outside terrace. Where the gas barbecue was. She was lying in a fetal position, curled up, cramped into a tiny space. A trunk, maybe.

I’m in a fucking car!

Some motherfucker’s got me hostage in a freaking trunk!

She had a dull headache, a throb pulsed in her left temple. Somebody must have hit her on the head. Somebody deliberately did this. But who? When? Why?

Did Phillip stack some pot in that last cigarette she smoked? Shit, she must be so late for work.

Somebody better let me out of here before I get my ass reamed by Mrs. Preston. Or fired. Mrs. Preston warned me. She’ll hire somebody more reliable.

Somebody let me out of here.

Somebody better.

Somebody please let me out of here.

And q
uickly…

9:07 AM

MUSC

34

Dr. Ronald Kendleson, the Chairman of MUSC’s surgical residency program had decided to join Dr. Garrison for attending rounds. Eleven residents entered the surgical ward, located on the second floor of the hospital. Nerves splintered as the residents observed Dr. Kendleson dramatically pull charts from three post op patients. He flipped through the pages effortlessly, stopping every so often to write a note into his pocket-sized binder.

Dr. Garrison slipped in, unnoticed. She took a position at the front of the group. She nodded to the mass of green scrubs and white lab coats looking up to her for salvation. She understood their obvious tension and frustration. It hadn’t been that long ago that she, too, had been standing where they were now, waiting to be executed by Dr. Ron.

She always fared well with Dr. Kendleson. She made it a point to never be intimidated by him or by anybody. He enjoyed every opportunity to prey on other people’s weak points. Find their soft spot, zoom in on their vulnerabilities and use it against them. For sport. How many times had she seen a resident retreat from rounds, driven to virtual tears by his ruthless interrogations? His merciless questions. And, not only females. Men, too, feared his wrath. His personalized humiliation. He must have realized early on that Dr. Garrison was impenetrable. That she would stand up, debate, and even disagree with him at times, if she felt it were necessary. Besides, Dr. Ron understood one very important thing. Dr. Garrison knew her shit. She hadn’t studied that hard, for so long, for nothing.

They took their places around bed number six. The floor opened to a petite Asian resident, Soomie Kim. It was her turn to present the case.

Dr. Kendleson removed his glasses. He inserted the plastic end into his mouth and bit at the tip. He studied the chart, trolling for mistakes, missing details, any opportunity to strike.

Dr. Garrison watched on proudly. She’d stolen a moment, earlier, to browse through the patient’s chart. Everything was in order. Soomie was an excellent resident. Now, Dr. Garrison wanted her appearance to calm her down. Dr. Kim cleared her throat. She looked up, first at Dr. Kendleson, and then at Dr. Garrison who gave her a reassuring nod.

“The patient is a fifty four year old Caucasian male, admitted early this morning via ambulance service with a gunshot wound to his thoracic region…”

The drone of her tiny voice and the constant attack of monitors beeping beside the patient’s head made Dr. Garrison long for a cup of coffee. Black and hot with lots of sugar. She suppressed a yawn, and moved her head every so often to show her attention wasn’t wavering, even though it was. She glanced out at the reception area by the elevators. Freedom.

What?

She couldn’t believe her eyes. That damn reporter was back. Like a bad head cold.

She interrupted the presentation. “Excuse me for one moment.”

Dr. Kendleson repositioned his glasses. He glared at her through bifocal lenses. “Where are you going?” His voice groaned like Darth Vader from
Star Wars
.

“There’s a situation I need to clear up. I won’t be long. I apologize for interrupting your presentation, Dr. Kim.”

Dr. Garrison gathered angry momentum as she pushed through the glass enclosure separating the Unit from the hallway. The residents watched on as she exited.

Dr. Kendleson, upset that Dr. Garrison had stolen his thunder, clapped his hands together several times and said, “Let’s go, Dr. Kim! We don’t have all day.”

“What are you doing here?” Dr. Garrison asked, approaching the reporter, contempt burning in her eyes.
What was her name? Janine, Jasmine..?

She extended her hand as if the Doctor might actually make an attempt to shake it.

Dr. Garrison walked right past her, eager to take advantage of this opportunity to fetch some coffee.

“Janice Porter, from the…”

“I know who you are.”

“We never actually got a formal opportunity to chat yesterday, with the fire and all…”

Dr. Garrison turned around and addressed her. “I’ve told you, over and over again, I have nothing more to say about the Kessler girl. I feel very sorry for her family, particularly her Father. I wish it would have ended differently…”

She’s a strange one, this one… bold. Fearless…

Janice interrupted her. “But it didn’t. Angie Kessler died. Here. In this hospital, two floors up. I’m actually shocked. Everybody seems to be handling it so well today… considering…”

“I
was
her physician.”

“Somebody actually walked right into her private room and made her into a human torch.”

“I saw the room. I was here. With you. Remember? What do you want from me? You seem to know more about the girl than I do.”

“What?”

“Aren’t you the one who coined the phrase,
The Mutilator
? Well,
aren’t
you? If I’m not mistaken, that was your face plastered all over the front page of the paper, wasn’t it?”

Janice took a step back. She blushed, catching herself in a priceless moment of personal recognition. It smacked her square in the face. A sucker punch. She felt embarrassed, shy, but proud. Proud. PROUD, “Ah, most of that information came from the gentleman who found her.”

Dr. Garrison craved coffee. And, a Valium. She pressed the elevator button. “I don’t know what else you could possibly want from me. I feel as if you’re harassing me.”

“Harassing you?” Janice chuckled, completely taken aback.

“That’s what it’s beginning to feel like. Showing up at my home. Following me around like…”

Hurry up, elevator. C’mon.

“Honestly, that’s not my intention, Dr. Garrison. Truly. I’m only trying to do my job. Trying to get to the bottom of this very ugly story, hoping maybe you might be willing to put a more personal spin on it…”

The elevator opened.
Thank God
. Dr. Garrison hurried in, hoping the reporter wouldn’t follow.

Janice stood stationary, a cement statue holding guard while Dr. Garrison took cover in the back corner. She reached out for the Lobby button and pulled her scrub coat tight around her body for comfort. The faint ding of the elevator closing and the reporter’s nauseating voice was the last thing she heard.

“If you don’t mind me saying so, Dr. Garrison, and I say this with all due respect, I just wouldn’t expect a physician, like yourself, to be so aggressively uncooperative. That’s what puzzles me the most…”

10:27 AM

Lockwood Precinct

Conference Room

35

Harry was losing his voice.

He downed
the last tepid swig of strong, burnt coffee from an oversized mug that read: NUMBER ONE DAD. He swallowed quickly in order not to taste the mud. Police precincts weren’t respected for their coffee, but perhaps in the South, they were renowned for their fathering. Harry looked over at Detective Hammer. “Could I please have a glass of water?”

Hammer jumped up. He walked to the side room and disappeared. The faint sound of suction releasing as the refrigerator opened.

“There are three distinct questions we need to ask ourselves in order to apprehend the perpetrator.” He glanced around the room. “Can anybody tell me the first?” A slight pause. He waited for some enthusiasm, some excitement. Nobody responded. “Okay, the first question we ask is what took place? This includes anything that might be behaviorally significant about the crime.”

Hammer returned to the desk. He placed the glass of cold water in front of him.

“Thank you.”  Harry ingested a large amount before setting the glass down. He felt the coldness soothe his throat and travel to his stomach. “That’s better. Secondly, we need to know why? Why did the crime happen the way it did? Remember, behavior reflects personality. Why was nothing of value taken? Was the mutilation done after death? Was the victim sexually assaulted? What are the underlying reasons for each behaviorally significant factor relating to this crime? And then, of course, this leads us to…who?”

A rapid succession of knocks at the door interrupted the question.

“Come in.”

Silence.

Faint voices echoed from the hallway. Upheaval was growing outside.

“What is it? Come in please.”

A police officer with carrot-colored hair poked his head around the door. “Police Chief Abrams, I’m sorry to disturb you, but we have an all alert out. Another girl is missing.”

Abrams repositioned himself in his chair. He assimilated the information. He pulled a crinkled handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his forehead. “Shit. Since when?”

“Just called in, sir. By the girl’s Mother. The girl’s name is Jennifer Stattler.”

Police Chief Abrams stood up. He tucked his shirt into his pants. He organized some papers on the desk in front of him and slipped them back into a folder.

“What’s the address?” Harry asked.

“High Battery. The harbor.”

Harry glanced over at Police Chief Abrams, then to Detective Hammer. “Let’s go, Detective. I’ll let you drive.”